


Three's Company

by Fyre



Series: Ne'er So Fair [9]
Category: Bad Education (UK TV)
Genre: Adoption, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank turned as Stephen came back into the room, and he felt the same flip in his stomach that he'd got when he proposed, and again when he'd married Stephen. Stephen was carrying the little boy who was going to be their kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's Company

**Author's Note:**

> Just a forewarning: this story is dealing with the repercussions of childhood abuse for not just Frank, but for a small child as well. It's not all happy and sunshine and roses.
> 
> It is also a follow on story to Ten Years Later, set a couple of years on.

Stephen was pacing back and forth across the living room.

West Ham were playing, so Frank was trying to keep one eye on the game, and one on his lover.

"You're gonna wear a hole in the carpet," he said finally.

Stephen spun around to face him. "What if they've changed their mind? What if they aren't coming after all? What if they think we're the wrong kind of people?"

It was the same panic Stephen had been having every fucking step of the way.

Frank got up from the couch and caught him by the hands. "You know they're on their way," he said as gently as he could. "You're being a paranoid cunt, remember?"

Stephen nodded, stepping closer to him and wrapping his arms around Frank's middle, burying his face in Frank's neck. It was what he always did when he needed some kind of reassurance, and Frank kissed his ear, then ran his hand over Stephen's head.

"If you're crying, you silly ponce," he murmured, "you'll scare them off."

"Not crying," Stephen mumbled.

"Liar," Frank countered. He drew back and lifted Stephen's face.

Stephen blinked hard, sniffing defiantly. "You're a nasty man."

Frank kissed the end of his nose. "You're the one who agreed to marry me, Carmichael."

"Sometimes, I forget why," Stephen drew himself up and dabbed at his eyes with the end of his sleeve.

He was looking good, Frank thought, watching him. Thirteen years since their first kiss, and almost two and a half since they got back together, Frank couldn't imagine being with anyone else. Course, for thirteen bloody years, Stephen was all he'd thought about, even when they'd split up and hadn't seen each other for years.

Stephen smoothed down his shirt, and took a shaky breath, his smile returning. "There. Happy face is on."

"Better than oh-my-god-I'm-pissing-myself face," Frank said, reaching up to adjust Stephen's collar.

Stephen pulled a face, back-handing Frank's chest lightly. "You're nervous too," he said. "I can tell."

Frank caught his hand, holding it to his chest. "Of course I am, arsehole," he said, tangling his fingers between Stephen's. "This is bigger than getting married, innit? Lifelong commitment and all that bullshit."

Stephen squeezed his hand. "You can't swear so much," he warned. "Bad influence."

"S'just words," Frank replied evenly.

They both flinched when the doorbell rang.

"Oh god..." Stephen whispered.

Frank drew him closer and kissed him firmly. "We'll be fine," he said. "We're settled, happy, and got a good home. No reason for anything to go wrong." He released Stephen's hand. "Go and get the door, yeah?"

Stephen hurried out to the hall, and Frank dug the remote out from between the cushions of the sofa, flicking the TV off. It was always better for Stephen to be the person to open the door. He practically glowed with welcome. Frank knew he looked like a grumpy bastard half the time, and it scared people off, even now, in their nice house, in their nice cul-de-sack, with their nice garden and nice fucking picket fence.

Frank wasn't sure how he - Frank fucking Grayson - ended up married and living somewhere that everyone would call 'nice'. Especially not married to a bloke.

But it was Stephen, and Stephen was nice, and Stephen made him happy.

That was how.

He turned as Stephen came back into the room, and he felt the same flip in his stomach that he'd got when he proposed, and again when he'd married Stephen. Stephen was carrying the little boy who was going to be their kid.

Oscar, he was called. Ozzy.

They'd had problems at the adoption agency finding parents for him, because the kid was three and barely spoke and was also half black and half white. Apparently, they were keen enough to get him adopted, that a bent black-and-white couple was good enough. Or maybe Stephen had just dazzled them with his sheer fucking goodness.

They'd visited the kid a few times at the home he was in, and taken him out a few times, but this was different. This was permanent.

Frank's mouth was dry, but he approached Stephen.

"All right, kiddo?" he said carefully.

Oscar hid his face in Stephen's shoulder, one hand over his face, but he peeked between small, skinny fingers.

"This is daddy Frank," Stephen said softly. "You remember him, yeah?"

Oscar nodded, hiding behind his hand.

"D'you want to give him a hug?" Stephen murmured. Oscar pressed closer against him, turning his face away.

Frank glanced up at Stephen. "He don't need to," he said quietly. "Not until he wants to."

Stephen met his eyes and nodded.

All the social work reports they'd been given access to said that Oscar had been badly neglected by his mother, and there were suspicions - never proven - that he may have been physically abused by her boyfriend, who hated the fact his girlfriend had a half-black child.

The fact that Oscar only ever flinched away from white men made it painfully likely, and Frank wanted to go out and find the cunt and beat him into the ground. It was bad enough taking out anger on someone full-grown, but on a kid as small as Oscar was fucking brutal.

Stephen sat down on the couch with Oscar nestled in his lap and Frank greeted Georgie Barclay, their social worker. She was a decent bird, short and round and warm, and she didn't give a fuck whether they were gay, straight, or fucking unicorns, as long as they were going to look after the kid.

There were procedures and shit to go through, and Frank let Stephen focus on the kid, while he sorted through paperwork and more forms, making sure they had all the right things signed and approved in all the right places. Wasn't worth ruining things for Oscar by making a stupid mistake on a form.

"Is it okay if I take Oscar up to see his room?" Stephen asked, ten minutes later. "I mean, I don't need to sign anything else?"

"It's all good," Georgie said. "Me and Frank'll take care of things." She got up when Stephen did and rose on her toes to speak to Oscar. "You'll be happy here, little man. I'll come and see you very soon, okay?"

Oscar peeked at her timidly, then hid his face again.

Stephen hugged the boy warmly. "C'mon, Oscar," he said happily. "Let's show you your room."

Frank watched them go, and looked down at his hands as Georgie sat back down.

"He just needs to get to know you, Frank," she said gently.

He nodded. "Yeah. I know." He ran his hand over his eyes, then got up. "You want a cuppa?"

"Please."

By the time he'd made it, his hands weren't shaking quite so much, and he'd splashed some water in his stinging eyes. More than ten fucking years since he'd seen his old man, and the bastard still cast a long shadow. Oscar was only small, but if he'd been hurt like everyone suspected, how the fuck was he ever meant to trust Frank not to hurt him?

After all, Frank had been so fucking messed up that he'd almost ended up worse than his old man to the kids around him at school. Stephen was the one who'd seen through it all and helped him put himself back together.

He braced his hands against the edge of the counter, taking a breath, then straightened up, and picked the mugs up, returning to the livingroom.

Georgie looked up at him with concern.

She didn't know all the details of his childhood. Enough to know he'd worked fucking hard to be nothing like his dad, but no one knew all the details, no one except his mum. Not even Stephen, even though he'd seen the end of the shitstorm. It wasn't something Frank wanted to talk about or even think about if he could help it.

"You okay?"

He nodded, handing her one of the mugs and sitting back down. "Nerves," he said. "Ain't had a son before."

"And Oscar hasn't had a good father before," she murmured, leaning over to pat his forearm gently. He looked up at her, doubtfully, and she smiled. "Don't you tell me you don't think you'll be a good dad, Frank. I know you, remember?" She sat back, wrapping her hands around the mug. "You've both got a lot of new things to get used to, you and Oscar. Stephen too."

"I'll look after 'em," Frank said quietly, fiercely. "Both of 'em."

Georgie smiled at him. "I know."

 

 

______________________________________

 

 

Oscar kept wetting the bed.

It wasn't a surprise.

Georgie warned them that when he was afraid or anxious, Oscar wouldn't leave the bed until it was too late, so they made sure to get a plastic sheet under the covers. Stephen had found him curled up under the bed more than once, hands over his face, as if he expected to be punished.

It was heartbreaking, every night, and Stephen would sit on the beanbag on the floor and comfort Oscar, while Frank cleared up the mess. He made sure they stayed there, so Oscar could see how much Frank was looking after him to, even if the boy still recoiled away from him.

Frank never once complained.

Stephen didn't need to ask why.

He remembered the one run-in he'd had with Frank's dad, years before. The man put Frank in hospital for days, and Stephen learned then that it wasn't the first time that Frank had needed treatment. His medical file was as thick as a brick and twice as heavy, and more than three-quarters of it was from his childhood.

No one noticed, because Frank's mum made sure of it, because the silly cow was convinced her husband - who was almost always aiming for her - loved her. No one cared to ask how one boy was so clumsy. Even less people cared when Frank started getting into fights of his own free will, and the bruises were explained away in other ways.

"See?" he said softly to Oscar. The boy's small hands were clutching at his arms, and he was leaning back against Stephen's chest, his eyes fixed on Frank. "Daddy Frank will make your bed nice and dry again."

Frank’d bundle up the sheets and blankets, then started making the bed, and each and every night, he’d look over at Oscar and say, “D’you want to help me put the covers on?” He was always quiet and so gentle towards Oscar, but every time, Oscar shook his head, and pressed back harder to Stephen’s chest.

It was wearing him down.

He didn’t say anything, but Stephen could tell, and by the end of the month, he didn’t have to look to know that Frank had retreated to bed, while he settled Oscar back in the freshly made bed. He was an undemanding little boy, wanting more of hugs and kisses than toys, and Stephen gently stroked his curly hair and sang him to sleep.

When Oscar was safely asleep, Stephen withdrew, leaving the nightlight on and the door open a crack in case Oscar wanted to risk using the bathroom. It was probably over-cautious, but they had a kiddie gate at the top of the stairs as well, in case he took a wrong turn.

Stephen made his way back to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

Frank was lying on his side, his back to the door, his right arm tucked under his head. He wasn’t asleep. Stephen could tell from the tension in his shoulders.

He shed his dressing gown and crawled back under the covers, curling against Frank’s back, his arm wrapping around Frank’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, kissing Frank’s shoulder through his baggy t-shirt.

“I want to kill the cunt what hurt him,” Frank whispered. “I want to make it as painful as fucking possible.”

“I know,” Stephen said softly. “He’ll get better, Frankie. He’ll see he’s safe here.”

Frank wrapped his hand around Stephen’s. “Hope so,” he said finally. “It fucks you up, y’know. Fucks you up in ways you don’t even notice.” His chest rose and fell against Stephen’s arm, and he released Stephen’s hand to reach over and switch the light off. “Y’can’t change his mind. Only he can do that.”

“But we can help,” Stephen murmured, tangling his legs with Frank’s.

Frank was still and silent for a long while. “Y’helped me.”

“Mm?”

“Before I came out,” Frank whispered. “You didn’t hide. Let me see I didn’t have to be so fucking scared of what I wanted.”

Stephen hugged him warmly and kissed his neck. “He’ll get there, Frankie,” he said softly. “He just needs time to see you like I do.” Frank snorted and Stephen smiled, amending, “Well, not exactly like I do, because that would be _so_ awkward.”

“Oh, shut it,” Frank murmured. It was said gently, and some of the tension had left his shoulders. “It’s not like we can paint him a great big fucking sign that says ‘Frank ain’t a raging nutcase no more’.”

“Well, we could, but I think that’s a bit tacky,” Stephen murmured sleepily, swatting his chest. “Anyway, he can’t read.”

“Y’know what I mean.”

Stephen nodded drowsily, lost in thought.

There was an idea forming, slightly hazy with sleep, but it seemed like it might work.

“Get some sleep, yeah, babes?” he murmured.

Frank squeezed his hand again, but didn’t reply.

By the time Stephen rolled out of bed in the morning, Frank was already up and out to work, but he’d set out the breakfast table for Stephen and Oscar. It was such a simple thing that made Stephen feel all stupid and mushy about him all over again.

While Oscar knelt up on his seat and patiently spooned his rice crispies into his mouth, Stephen had his phone out. The plan that had vaguely come into his head last night felt like it was a brilliant idea, and he hoped Chantelle would agree.

She did, thankfully, so when Frank got home, the living room was busier than usual.

Frank looked in the door, raising his eyebrows.

“Uncle Frank!” Steffie, Chantelle’s six year old, scrambled up and ran at him.

Stephen’s lips twitched as four year old Gav tried to follow, both of them doing their best to climb up Frank’s legs.

“All right, Grayson?” Chantelle said, smiling.

Frank nodded curtly to her, then gave Stephen a look that told him Frank knew exactly what he’d done and why.

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by toys, Oscar was staring nervously up at Frank, and more specifically at the way his two new friends were climbing up Frank like he was a tree. Frank could hold them both easily, both kids little titches like their mum.

“What are you two little buggers doing here, then?” he said, looking from Steffi to Gav.

“We come to play with Ozzy,” Steff informed him. “He likes bricks.” She wrapped her arms around Frank’s neck, just like she always did. “I brung my new book. You can read us a story from it.”

“Your mum can do that,” Frank said, stepping carefully over Oscar and the toys to get to his chair, and sit down, setting a kid on each one. “She can read and everything. Least that’s what she says.”

“Can’t,” Gav insisted. “She don’t do the voices right.”

Frank - as usual - protested, but by the time Stephen got up to make the dinner with Chantelle, Gav and Steff were listening intently to the story Frank was reading them from the book, one of them sitting on each arm of his chair. They were right about him being good at the voices.

Stephen nudged Chantelle, nodding towards Oscar. Frank hadn’t even noticed, but his son has edged closer, and was sitting at his feet, listening too, wide-eyed.

Chantelle tugged him through into the kitchen, smiling. “So your evil genius plan worked, then?”

Stephen nodded happily. “Not just a pretty face,” he said. It was only a little step, but it was a lot bigger than anything they’d managed so far.

 

 

______________________________________

 

 

Things were getting better.

It was taking time, but Frank didn’t mind that. Most people who knew him’d be surprised to find out just how patient he could be. When it came to Oscar, he knew he’d let the kid take as long as he needed to feel all right.

Ozzy was speaking more now.

Not much, and when he did, he always hesitated, and backed away, but even that was happening less. He wasn’t so scared to ask for one of his toys down from his shelf, or to shyly bring a book over and hold it out to Frank, asking for a story.

He still didn’t touch Frank unless he had to, and if Frank had to lift him up or carry him, Oscar froze up, like he was waiting for something bad to happen. It was fucking difficult, wanting to hug the kid to comfort him when he was upset, when Oscar flinched any time he tried.

Still, it was getting better.

Oscar sometimes smiled timidly at him.

It made it feel so fucking worthwhile.

And Stephen was fucking perfect at being a dad.

He was all smiles and sunshine for Oscar, and at night, he hugged Frank, and reminded him that he wasn’t a shit person, and that Ozzy didn’t have a problem with him personally. It sounded all right, coming from Stephen, like it was true.

Sometimes, Frank wondered what the hell he’d done to deserve someone like Stephen.

Together, it felt like they could manage anything.

Of course, then there came the night when Stephen got a phonecall from his mum: she and his dad had both got food poisoning and needed Stephen to go over.

Oscar was already in bed, and he’d been better about the bed-wetting for a couple of weeks, even if there were still some small accidents. Stephen glanced in on him, checking he was fast asleep, then looked at Frank, worried.

“You know where to find me, if you need me,” he said, then kissed Frank quickly, and ran.

Frank stood at the front door, feeling fucking terrified.

When they’d decided to adopt, Stephen had suggested they both take some time off work to spend completely with Oscar until he was settled. Frank loved the silly nonce, but sometimes Stephen’s brain and money didn’t work together. So Stephen was a stay-at-home dad, and Frank was only around in the evenings and weekends.

But never alone.

He switched off everything downstairs, and made his way up to bed, shutting the gate at the top of the stairs behind him. Wasn’t worth risking Ozzy falling down the stairs trying to find someone if he woke, and at least that way, Frank would know he hadn’t run off somewhere.

There was some crap film on the telly, so he propped up the pillows in the bed, and dimmed the lights to watch it, even though he didn’t give a crap if the good guys or the bad guys were blown up.

It was almost done when something moved by the door, and he glanced over.

Oscar was standing there, half-hidden by the door.

Frank’s heart felt like it had fucking jumped into his mouth. “All right, Oscar?”

Oscar shook his head, sidling into the light. He was clutching the front of his pyjama bottoms and Frank could see the wet stain spread on the fabric. He groped for the remote and switched off the telly, then slowly pushed back the blankets.

“Can I come and clean up?”

Oscar looked down at his feet, and Frank saw the fat tears splat on his pyjama top.

Christ he wanted to hug the kid and tell him it was all right.

He got out of the bed carefully and knelt down, bringing himself down to Oscar’s level. The boy was small for his age, too small and frail and thin and frightened. “D’you know where daddy Stephen keeps your pyjamas?”

Oscar looked up at him nervously, then nodded.

“Good,” Frank said, then carefully offered his hand. “Can you show me?”

Oscar stared at Frank’s hand like it might fucking bite him, then slowly, slowly reached out and took it with his own cold, wet fingers.

Frank’s heart was thumping against his ribs. “Good,” he said again, softly, getting up slowly. “Now, you show me where to find your pyjamas, yeah?”

His eyes fixed on the floor, his fingers wrapped around just one of Frank’s, Oscar led him back through to the room.

Frank stopped in surprise. The blanket was pushed back from the bed, and it looked like the sheets were dry. There was just a puddle in the middle of the wooden floor, as if Oscar had got as far as getting out of bed, but was too nervous to get as far as the bathroom.

Oscar pulled his hand back and covered his face with both palms.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Frank said, crouching down beside him. “You got out of the bed, didn’t you? That’s good.” He looked around the room. “D’you want to get some dry clothes, yeah? And then we can clean up the floor.”

Oscar edged towards the drawers, pulling open the middle one and pulling out mismatched pyjama bottoms and a top. He hesitated, then carried them back to Frank and held them out at arm’s length.

“Good boy,” Frank murmured. He beckoned Oscar closer, and as gently as he could, got him out of the soaked pyjamas and into the dryer ones. Oscar quivered, but didn’t move a muscle, his small hands curled up in tight fists.

Frank murmured reassurances, keeping his voice as low and calm as he could, and as soon as he was done, he used Oscar’s damp pyjamas to wipe up the worst of the splashes.

“There,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “All better.” He looked at Oscar. “D’you want to go back to bed now?”

Oscar scurried across the floor, climbing up onto the bed, pulling the blankets up over his head.

Frank rose from the floor, the sodden pyjamas in one hand.

“Daddy Frank?”

He felt like his fucking heart had stopped at the muffled whisper. “Yeah, Oz?”

“Story?”

Frank had a feeling he was grinning like a fucking idiot. “I’ll just wash my hands,” he said, “then I’ll come and tell you one, all right?”

Dark eyes peeped over the edge of the blanket and Oscar nodded.

In the end, it was three stories, and Frank’s knees were fucking wrecked from kneeling on the floor beside the bed for nearly an hour. Course, he didn’t say anything about that to Oscar, not when the kid lowered the blanket enough to get a goodnight kiss for the first fucking time.

“G’night, Oz.”

The blanket was pulled back up. “G’night, daddy Frank.”

Frank felt like he fucking floated back to his own room. He was still lying on the bed, grinning at the ceiling when Stephen got home, and when he kissed his husband, he wasn’t the least bit fucking surprised when Stephen tackled him onto the bed.

So many fucking weeks of worrying had made things so fucking tense, but now with a break in the tension, it felt good to just enjoy one another again, even if he did end up clapping his hand over Stephen’s gob, to stop his moans from waking their boy.

For the first time in months, it felt like things really were going to be fine.

 

___________________________________________

 

 

It was amazing the difference a few months could make.

It was coming up on Oscar’s fourth birthday, and he’d been with them for almost ten months.

He didn’t seem anything like the scared, bone-thin, silent little boy they had been introduced to at the care home, over a year before. He smiled, now, and laughed more. He still didn’t talk as much as other children his age, but there was no doubt that he could when he chose to.

Best of all - and to Stephen’s relief - he wasn’t scared of Frankie anymore.

He was still shy around him, but he wasn’t afraid to sit on his knee anymore, or let Frank put him to bed, even when Stephen was there and could have done it. Frank even took him to the park sometimes, on his own, and when they came back, Oscar would be holding his hand and pink-cheeked and happy.

They did family weekend stuff together too, since Frank still worked most of the week, and Oscar wasn’t afraid to climb onto the bed to wake them up on a Saturday.

Stephen felt all stupid and giddy the morning he woke up to see Oscar bouncing on Frank’s chest, trying to wake him first. Frank grumbled and growled and tried to pull the blankets over his head, which made Oscar laugh in delight and pull at them, until Frank sat up suddenly, catching him in a tangle of blankets and arms, making Oscar shriek with glee.

And Frank was so happy.

Stephen knew they’d been happy before, but this was something else. They were a family, and he knew that Frank had never really had a proper one of those before. No one was hurting each other. No one was miserable. No one was left out. It was all perfect.

He was making the dinner with Oscar one night. Oscar had a little stool to stand on beside him, and he was dropping the potatoes into the pan one by one, as Stephen peeled them. Both of them looked round when they heard the sound of the front door.

Oscar looked up at Stephen, wide-eyed.

Stephen laughed. “You can go and see how daddy Frank is, yeah?”

Oscar jumped down from the stool and pattered away through the house. Stephen could hear the murmur of Frank’s voice, and Oscar’s higher one. They didn’t come through to the kitchen, but that was normal. Frank was a crap cook and he tended to avoid places he couldn’t be useful in.

Stephen continued to work on the food, putting the potatoes on to boil, and checking the chicken in the oven. He was just adding the last of the vegetables when he heard something being dragged around in the hall and leaned out the door to see a blanket trailing across the floor and vanishing into the living room.

He frowned, wiping his hands, and made his way through, pausing in the doorway.

Oscar had dragged his favourite woollen blanket down from his bedroom, and had climbed up onto the couch, where Frank was lying, one arm over his eyes. Stephen watched as the boy carefully tucked the blanket around Frank.

“All right?” Stephen murmured.

Frank lifted his arm just a little, a crooked smile on his face.

“Sh!” Oscar said, putting his finger to his lips. “Daddy Frank is tired. I put him to bed.”

Stephen had to press his lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot. “I see,” he said more quietly, watching as Oscar snuggled down happily at Frank’s side. “I’ll go and finish the dinner, and you look after daddy Frank, okay?”

Oscar nodded, wrapping Frank’s arm around him. “And then, I’ll give daddy Frank dinner,” he said firmly.

Stephen stepped back out of the room, but he wouldn’t have been himself if he didn’t stick his phone around the doorframe and take a picture to post online so everyone could see just how happy they were.

He tagged it as ‘Dad and son are both lazy sods’, and smiled all the way back to the kitchen.


End file.
